


Five Ways Derek and Stiles became "Derek and Stiles" and the One Way They Definitely Didn't

by RemainNameless



Series: on hiatus i'm sorry [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 5x1, F/M, M/M, lots of fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-07
Updated: 2012-08-14
Packaged: 2017-11-11 15:49:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/480195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RemainNameless/pseuds/RemainNameless
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What it says on the tin. </p><p>Canon-AU for Season 3 (obvs the finale hasn't aired yet so no real confirmation that it's canon-compliant)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“No. No no no no no. Do _not_ even think about it.”

Scott pulls out the were-puppy eyes. “ _Please_. Come on, man. You know my mom took my car away and I can’t go anywhere in town.”

“The answer is no. I am not going to drive you to the store for condoms. Not going to happen.” Stiles rubs a hand over his face; Scott is still there when it drops to his side. “Okay, let’s try a little role-play: you’ll be the supportive best friend and I get to be the one who’s about to get some. Because that’s what’s happening. For the first time ever, I, Stiles Stilinski of impressive levels of awesome and as-yet-unrecognized sex appeal, _am going to get some_. Do you realize that this might only happen once? The fates gave me this wondrous opportunity, and I am not going to waste it. Next time some sort of supernatural creature threatens me, I will be content in the knowledge that I won’t be dying a virgin. It’s a _miracle_. And you’re not going to mess this up.”

“Fine.” Scott sighs dramatically. “Blind date’s a he, right?” Stiles nods. “Then don’t wear the hoodie. At least try to look sort of metrosexual. You don’t want to look _too_ straight. Do you have something tighter than that?” 

Stiles looks down at his baggy t-shirt. “ _I’m sorry_ I don’t have amazing bulging muscles that make all of my shirts look like they were bought at _Baby Gap_ and can tempt even the most strong-minded of men. This is as good as it’s gonna get.” He plucks at his shirt. Scott looks confused.

“I really don’t understand that reference, dude, but you’ve got to have something else. I mean, you’ve got stains on that. Is that— Why are there blood stains on your shirt? Come on, that’s gross.”

“ _I washed it_. Multiple times. And it’s a _weekend shirt_. For when I’m not going to see anyone. I wasn’t going to wear it, so calm your tits.” Actually, the shirt is technically Derek’s. He left it at Stiles’ house _ages_ ago and it’s big and soft and yeah, he’s washed it, so no, it’s not weird that he sometimes sleeps in it. Whatever. Derek hasn’t said anything.

He digs through his drawers, finding nothing, then ends up on his hands and knees, digging through the pile of clothes in his closet. (He’s not really so good with the whole hanging-things-up concept.) At last, he finds a passably-clean shirt that isn’t loose and comfy and awesome. It’s also got the Spiderman symbol on it. Oh well. It’s red, which is what he needs, so it’ll do. He’s got a blazer here somewhere, and he can layer a button-up under it because that’s classy, even if Scott doesn’t get it. This will work. 

“You look like jailbait,” Scott says almost as soon as he pulls the shirt over his head. It’s a little bit too-short, just enough to ride up if he, well, _moves_ , probably because he’s sure it’s from middle school, but whatever. 

“It doesn’t look _that_ bad. And anyway, jailbait is only jailbait if you fuck it, so I’m translating that to mean that I look fuckable, and you are not going to succeed in convincing me otherwise.” He opts for just the blazer over, and he’s already got on his tightest jeans, so this is good. He’s dressed as well as he can. Unless…yup, there it is, on top of the freshly overturned heap of clothes spilling out of his closet: his only scarf. He twists it around his neck, then Blue Steels. “Do I look sufficiently metro for you?” 

Scott, who’s lounging on his bed, nods. “Yep. I would believe you’re into dudes. I bet even your dad would.”

Stiles gives him a look. “ _Three times_. I tried to tell him three times and he still won’t believe me. Do you realize how frustrating that is? I could seriously make out with Danny in front of him and he would still think I’m just making a joke. Not that Danny would ever make out with me. I’m apparently not his type. I don’t think I’m masculine enough for him. But am I really that un-manly? _I_ think I’m kind of a badass.”

“Those are two very different things, man. Anyway, now that you’re dressed, can you take me to the Base?” Stiles rolls his eyes because really? _The Base_? Not even a good hideout nickname. But the whole pack had shot down his idea of calling it the Kennel, so clearly, he’s the only one with a sense of humor. And he calls it the Wolf Den anyway. So does Derek, actually, but he thinks that’s mostly because Derek doesn’t appreciate the Lost references Scott tries to make and is really into his wolf-hood, but that’s neither here nor there.

“Yeah, come on. I don’t want to be late.” 

 

Stiles drops Scott off at the Den, feeling very, very much like a soccer mom. A soccer mom who is enabling her son’s sex life. Except that’s kind of a really creepy comparison and he’s going to stop thinking about it because it’s giving him the skeeves. 

As he pulls away, he notices that most of the cars are there. Most, but not Derek’s. Probably getting pizza or something. _Technically_ , there’s no pack meeting, but it’s a Saturday afternoon and most of them all end up at the Den anyway. Which is why Stiles actually feels a little weird about making other plans because sometimes they have movie nights and he really wants to make them all watch _Trolls 2_ one of these days, but this is the very likely possibility of real, two-person, live-action _sex_. Where he actually gets to _participate_. And it’s even pretty likely that it’ll happen because if the fact that he and triskelion117 (actual names they’re both saving for the date just in case the other turns out to be a serial killer, that’s something they’re very much in agreement on) have had cybersex, like, four times now. To the point where Stiles thinks he might actually be getting _good_ at cybersex. At the very least, he’s learning how to type left-handed _really well_. 

So yes, Stiles has condoms in his back pocket right now and has spent the past month googling how to give a good blowjob, and maybe perhaps practicing on an unsuspecting banana or two, but the point is, he’s _prepared_ for this. He’s not going to go home without having had some kind of sex first; his mind and his dick are very much made up on that point. 

 

The date is at this cute little coffee shop that’s too trendy for him, but whatever. It’s called The Grind House, and he’s really not sure if that’s a good thing because he _knows_ Quentin Tarantino, dammit, and that one was kind of bloody as shit. Though it did prove to him that he could be attracted to an amputee. _Oh_ , did it….

Really, he’s stalling. Sitting in his car in a parking space, too fucking nervous to go in. Because it’s technically his first date. Ever. And he’s not really sure what he’s supposed to do. He’d ask his dad, but, well, he doesn’t want his dad trying to do a background check on the guy, and it could be potentially bad that Stiles had lied about his age online. Okay, but really, if he’d admitted he’s sixteen, it could have gotten weird. And he can pass for nineteen. Kind of. Well, no one would _assume_ he’s nineteen by looking at him, but they probably wouldn’t argue if that’s what he told them. Probably. 

“And we’re getting _out_ of the car,” he tells himself, forcing his body to move because the only thing worse than being chickenshit about a date is getting _caught_ being chickenshit about a date. He doesn’t need triskie ( _shut the fuck up, it’s easier than numbers and shit and he likes nicknames_ ) to think he’s a total loser. Even if they kind of know each other pretty well, he feels. Mutual orgasms kind of put them up there. And alright, he could be fifty and hideously overweight, but—

Nope. No one fitting that description. Now if he could just find a blue shirt….

“Oh, _holy mother of fuck_ ,” he hisses to himself, sees a familiar head snap up and eyes zoom in on him. Stiles marches right over to Derek’s booth, suddenly furious. “What are you doing here?” he demands. Because Derek’s intruding on _his_ date, and that’s not at all okay because people tend to think they’re dating even though they most certainly aren’t, which definitely has something to do with the fact that werewolves have absolutely _zero_ concept of personal space. 

“I could ask you the same thing.” Shit, he looks _pissed_. Well, as pissed as someone with a foamy drink in front of them can look. Which is _not particularly_. Especially with the criss-cross-y caramel sauce. 

“ _I_ have a date, so you’re going to need to leave. I’m not letting you mess this up for me.”

Derek levels a glare at him. “Well, it just so happens that I have a date, too, and since I was here _first_ , you’ll just have to go somewhere else.” 

“Oh my _God_ ,” Stiles whines, maybe pouting a little. “Just help a friend out, okay? You could get laid in an _emergency room_ , alright? Some of us actually have to work for it. My need is totally greater here.” Derek is still glaring. “Seriously, I will clean the Den for, like, a _year_ if you just do me this one solid. _Please_.” He’s seriously begging, which would be embarrassing if he weren’t so desperate. As it is, he’ll do whatever it takes.

“ _I can’t_. I don’t have my date’s number.” He pulls out his wallet. “Look, I’ll pay for you to buy dinner at that place across the street. It’s nice. Just take her there.” Derek holds out a couple of twenties. When Stiles doesn’t take them immediately, he grabs Stiles’ hand and forces him to. 

“Dude, I don’t have my date’s number either.” He sighs, flopping down dramatically across the table from Derek. “This _blows_. One of us is going to have to meet the other’s date. It’s just going to have to happen. I’m actually going to die a virgin. I can see it now.”

“ _Stiles_. Stop talking. Get up. Go sit somewhere else. I don’t want my date thinking I’m here with you.” 

For a second, Stiles is very offended, but then he starts to realize something. “Shit. You’re on a blind date too, aren’t you?” The situation just keeps getting better and better: not only are they both waiting for people, but neither of them will actually know their dates when they see them, so for all they know, one or both of their dates could have seen them together. “Jesus, this is actually the worst, isn’t it? And I was a total idiot because really? I seriously told him to wear _blue_? _Everyone_ wears blue. Like, half of all shirts made are some shade of blue. There are seriously seven people in this room wearing it, even _you_ , because I was really stupid and did not think this through at all—“

“Will you just _shut up_ for a minute?” Derek pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s getting a terrible headache. Actually, he does this a lot if they end up alone for more than a few minutes. “Now, I’m going to ask you a single question, and you’re going to answer me without Stiles-ing your way into a new topic of conversation. Got it?”

“Was that the question or is there a second? Because _technically_ , that was a—“

“I am going to dismember you very, _very_ slowly. _With my teeth_.” Okay, that’s a pretty serious glare right there. Stiles is going to shut up now. Even if his brain is coming to a particular dirty and not-bloody image vaguely related to dismemberment, but more related to _teeth_ and _slowly_ and _naked_ , even though he’s pretty sure no one was talking about nudity here.

Derek waves a hand in front of his face, startling him out of his thoughts. “Sorry, sorry. You had a question?”

“Yeah, uh—“ Derek is actually biting his lip, like he’s _nervous_ or something “—maybe this is completely going out on a limb here, and I’m probably going to regret this, but what would you say if I…if I told you I was Batman?”

Stiles makes a face. “Um, fuck you, bitch, _I_ am the _night_ —“ He slaps a hand over his own mouth as Derek winces. Shakes his head fast enough to give himself vertigo. Derek nods once, roughly, pinching the bridge of his nose again. 

Nope.

Nope nope nope.

Not happening. There is _no way._

“Seriously, does the Den even _have_ WiFi? Do you even know what WiFi _is_? How do you— Oh my god. You never tried to schedule raids on the full moon. I always worried you would, but you _never did_. And our schedules always lined up _so well_. Oh my god. What is going on right now. I cannot handle this situation right now. I need alcohol. I need massive head trauma. _What_.” 

Derek’s pinched expression drops after a second, and then he’s nearly _snarling_ , gone from in pain to _majorly fucking pissed_ in about a millisecond. “You said you were _nineteen_. _What do you think you’re doing_ , telling strangers on the internet that you’re legal?” 

Stiles chokes. Curls up into a ball. Flies into the sun. 

Because they had _cybersex_. Sure, no actual contact involved, but he’d said some very pornographic, very embarrassing things and _Derek had seen that_. Oh my god. He’s actually going to _die_ of embarrassment. He’s legitimately going to shrivel up and die. Worse, he’s still going to be dying a virgin in the end. Oh, the _irony_. 

“Can you just kill me now? I don’t know how to go on. Strike what I said earlier, _this_ is the actual worst.” He actually wants to cry. Or something. This is…not what he wanted. Not at all. 

“I cannot believe you lied about your age,” Derek says because he’s apparently really stuck on that one.

Stiles groaned loudly, thumping his head on the table repeated. “ _Oh my GOD_. Can we focus on the fact that we have been internet-dating for, like, two months? Or on the fact that you apparently _play World of Warcraft_? All those times Erica and Jackson made fun of me for it, and here you are, a closet WoW player. Jerk." 

“ _Nineteen_. You said you were _nineteen_. Why would you _lie_?”

“Because otherwise you would’ve just thought I was some stupid kid! I get that enough in real life. Don’t need it online too. Especially not with— _How_. I just don’t get _how_. This has to be the worst and weirdest coincidence _ever_.” 

“Shut up.” Derek glares at him. “Now, look here. You’re not going to tell anyone _ever_ that you’re any older than you are. Why would you take that chance? Jesus, I could have been forty-five and— Stiles, do you realize how dangerous this could have been? I could have been someone who wanted to hurt you. You can’t just put yourself in danger like that. I can _not_ believe you would do something so _stupid_.”

“Are you serious? For the first time since this whole business with Scott’s furry little problem, there was someone who wanted to listen to me. Wanted to hear what I had to say, and not because I was trying to save their life. Someone who didn’t even _know_ me and kind of cared about me as something other than just a solution to their problems. And you know, we had great banter. Great…other things.”

Derek massages his temples with the most conflicted expression Stiles has ever seen.

“Okay, how about this? I’m going to go out on a limb here and say this: I like your internet personality a lot, but you know what I like better? That the grumpy werewolf I’ve been nursing a bit of a crush on happens to be that same person. And maybe I’m totally, completely wrong about this, but I thought you kind of liked me too. Unless you just wanted me for my body, but I can work with that, you know. I’m certainly amenable to that sort of—“

A long, loud sigh, then, “There will be absolutely no touching below the waist until you turn eighteen. We clear?”

“Wait, what?”

“I thought you…you know. Wanted to…whatever. Date. With me. I mean _go on_ dates with me. Or something like that.”

“One down, only three-hundred-forty-one days to go.” Derek’s face sinks into a little bit of a frown. “Unless you want to reconsider the ‘no touching’ rule?”

“Sure,” Derek says, nodding with something like a smirk. “I’ll do anything you’re willing to tell your father about.”

“No one likes a smart ass,” Stiles says, but he’s grinning and Derek’s grinning, and who is he kidding? He _loves_ smart asses. And smart people with asses. Whatever. It’s all good.


	2. Chapter 2

“We need to talk,” Stiles says as he slides into the booth. Derek sips at his drink, then raises his eyebrows in a distinct _I want you to keep talking but I’m too lazy to hold up my end of the conversation_ bitchface. Because best kept secret about their Alpha: he’s a major sassy bitch at heart, no matter how hard he tries to hide it behind poutiness and manpain and the very real threat of physical violence. But Stiles gives precisely zero fucks about that, so he waits him out. 

“What, exactly, do we need to talk about?” Underneath it, there’s _according to you, which means it’s probably unimportant because if it mattered at all we’d be sitting with the whole pack right now_. But that’s okay because Stiles has set his Derek default emotion to _pissed off,_ so he’s more than ready to deal with the sass.

“About us. Well, about _me_ because I’m awesome and I do a lot for you and for everyone else, so I think I deserve to have just one thing for myself.” He crosses his arms and waits because one of his favorite past times is forcing Derek to participate in their conversations like a normal person. 

“And what is this one thing that I am so rudely depriving you of?” Sarcasm. Cute.

“A love life.” Derek makes a face that Stiles rolls his eyes at. “Yeah, yeah. _What love life_? you ask. I know. And that’s the point. I have zero love life to speak of, and it’s your fault; you’re in my way. I’m sixteen and I just want to have a normal, average relationship with someone. Hell, not even a relationship. Just a _date_. Singular, even. With one person. But I can’t. Because of you. Sort of.”

A raised eyebrow. Stiles is kind of working himself up, so he’ll let the silence slide.

“ _What’s that supposed to mean?_ ” he says in an overly gruff voice, face scrunching up. “Well, Derek, since you asked so non-violently and because you clearly, given the past month or so, have absolutely no idea what I’m talking about, I’ll tell you.” Derek is very unamused, but Stiles barrels on. “Scott and Allison and Erica and Isaac and Boyd and _everyone_ are telling _everyone else_ that you and I are…you know.” He tries to make a gesture, but it turns out a lot cruder than he’d intended. 

Derek makes a bleak face at his hands. “They think we’re sleeping together, is that what you’re trying to say?”

“ _No_. I _wish_. It’s so much worse than that! They think we’re _dating_.” A blank look. “I mean, like, worse than Scott and Allison. They think we’re going to have little were-puppies and get married and go on vacation in the south of France and _spoon_. They even made up a _name_ for us. They Liz Lemon-ed us, Derek. It’s that bad.”

“I don’t know what that is.”

“Oh my _God_ , just get Netflix. It’s that simple!” He shakes off his indignant rage. “Okay, so it’s a sitcom, she’s the main character or whatever, and whoever her boss is dating, she combines their names. His name is Jack, right? So it’s Jalisa and Javery and what not. Because it’s easier to say since she always sees them together. They’re calling us ‘ _Sterek_ ’. Do you understand what this _means_? They combined our names out of convenience. We are a _unit_ to them. It’s inhumane. Also, the entire school thinks I’m jailbait now, so thanks. If my dad finds out, he’ll—“

“What? Invite me over for dinner again?”

Stiles scowls. “No, you big idiot; he’ll _threaten you_. With guns. And stuff. And he won’t be kidding around.”

Derek rolls his eyes, takes a sip of his drink. “You do realize that that already happened, right? Like, _weeks_ ago. The first time you made me come over for dinner. After you went upstairs to grab some video games with Isaac or whatever it is you do.”

“Are you being serious right now?” Stiles is floored. Sure, his dad has said some kind of weird things in regard to Derek, but not anything too…whatever. 

“You know me. I never joke, do I?”

“Unless something’s actually funny, I know, I know, but really? I mean, obviously, you corrected him, but _still_.” Derek shrugs, looking away. “Wait, you didn’t correct him, did you? Oh my God. _You didn’t correct him?_ Why? For the love of all that is holy, why would you let my dad think we’re dating? Jesus _Christ_.”

“It’s easier than explaining to him about the pack. It gives you an excuse to be out of the house as often as you are, especially at night.” Night, implying stuff that goes on at night. Like sex. Oh holy God. Suddenly, his dad’s repeated, awkwardly stilted _Are you sure you don’t need anything in particular from the store? It’s better not to run out of certain things in the heat of the moment,_ makes a whole lot more sense. Sweet Lord. 

“My dad thinks we’re having sex. Oh my God. This is the actual worst.” 

Derek only shrugs.

“Are you seriously not concerned about this? I mean, even if my dad can’t really hurt you, even if you’re not worried about him, at the very least, you have to be upset that you’re not getting any because of it. I mean, unless you’re not into…stuff. Then whatever. But seriously. This is the worst cockblock in the entire world.”

Of course, his dinner partner looks entirely unconcerned.

“You know what? You’re going to make it up to me. You owe me that much.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah. _Really_. You’ve dated, haven’t you?” Derek does sort of a shrug-nod. “Okay, then you’re going to tell me how to do it. I know what you’re thinking: _how can someone so incredibly attractive have zero dating experience_? All you, buddy. So you owe it to me to teach me how to be a dating god. And if you don’t, well, I’ll complain to Jackson about our supposed sex life and then everyone will think you’re not very good in bed.” Actually, he’d do nothing of the sort because a) he values his life, and b) he’s not even sure that the English language actually allows someone to say that a person as ridiculously good-looking as Derek Hale is not a good lay. But it’s the _threat_ of the thing that counts.

“Fine, but only because there is absolutely no one else in the pack who could ever teach you because they’re all idiots. So. Lesson one: if you’re going to ask a girl on a date, commit. Don’t ask her to hang out or any of that bullshit. Walk up to her and ask her like you mean it. And don’t apologize when you’re doing it. That’s pathetic.”

“Uh, what if I get nervous though? You know how my mouth runs.”

“Doesn’t matter. You look her in the eyes and you say: _Hey, Mydia Lartin, do you want to go to dinner with me?_ And that is that. Either she says yes or she doesn’t.” 

Stiles makes a face at him. “You know I’m not still hung up on Lydia. Got over that a _long_ time ago.”

“Yeah? Then who, exactly, are you planning on asking out?”

“You know… _people_. Who are dateable. That I know. Who don’t hate me. Those kinds of people.”

“You’re a complete mess, you know that? Now figure out what you’re ordering. You have thirty seconds before the waitress comes over.” Stiles ducks his head to check out his menu, but they come here pretty often and he usually gets the same thing, so it doesn’t really matter anyway. Gets his usual bacon cheese burger, onions grilled, hold the mustard. Actually, if he’s being honest, he much prefers when it’s just him and Derek eating out because when everyone else is there, he feels pressured to make them eat healthy and lead by example and whatnot, but since he’s given up on Derek entirely, he feels free to eat unhealthy junk. 

“Okay, so what’s lesson two?”

“Don’t take her to a crappy place. And if you have to dig into the back of your closet for something to wear, it’s too nice. Just take her somewhere relaxed.” 

“Right. Like here?” 

Derek looks around. “Whatever. If that’s what you want. No guarantee that the pack won’t show up if you come here. You know how they are.” It’s true; they tend to hang around Chili’s. Often enough that there’s a fifty-fifty chance they’ll crash his and Derek’s dinner tonight because that’s what they do, even though when that happens, it’s usually not until dessert. So maybe bringing a date here isn’t the best idea. Good to think about.

“Cool. So then what? Let’s say we get here and all, what the hell am I supposed to do?”

“Um, _talk_?” he says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You don’t usually have a problem with that.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “I know, but about what? And how flirtatious is the the right amount of flirtatious? Not that I have a flirtatious bone in my body, but you know what I mean.” Derek looks rather terribly frustrated, actually, and kind of huffs as he takes Stiles’ hand where it’s resting on the table. He jerks away on instinct, but Derek has a good grip. “Um, this is a really precious moment and all, but—“

“I’m demonstrating what you should do, idiot. If the girl you’re on a date with has her hand on the table, make a point of looking at it a couple times, and if she leaves it there, then you go for it. That’s lesson three. And don’t be weird about it. If one of you needs both hands to eat, then let go.”

“Right. Okay.” 

“And when you’re talking? Don’t talk loudly. Be _soft_. Make her have to lean in a little to hear you.” He lowers his voice just a little, but Stiles is already leaning in, actually, because Derek is only loud if he’s yelling or growling. So it definitely works. 

“That’s kind of a cool trick.” Derek gives him the sarcastic-raised-eyebrow-nod that means that Stiles is being an idiot, and Stiles is too busy looking at his stupid face to realize at first that Derek’s thumb is sort of caressing the fleshy part of his hand. It’s really gentle and not something he’d really been expecting so that’s why his face heats up. “You sure I’m ready for Level Two Hand-Holding?” he jokes, trying to throw off his little bit of discomfort. 

“You’re not in middle school, so yeah, I think you can handle it. Level Three might be too much for you, though.” The way he says it makes it unclear whether he’s joking or not, but there’s a little quirk at the corner of his mouth. 

“What’s Level Three? Palm-reading?”

“You’ll know when you get there.” Cryptic bastard. “If you get there.”

“Do you even know what Level Three is? Does it even exist? Because I’m starting to remember this really awkward attempt on your part to charm a deputy, and if that’s your A-Game, then maybe I’d be better off getting advice from Scott.”

A dry look. “Consider that phrase _very_ carefully for a moment because it sounded like you just used the words ‘advice’ and ‘Scott’ in the same sentence.”

“Fine. Point taken. But maybe Erica. She’s had some success—“

“Erica’s idea of seduction involves a full-frontal assault and a push-up bra. If that’s what you’re going for, then _by all means_.”

Stiles shrugs. “Then Isaac. He’s got some…charm.”

“Because he’s done so well with his little crush.” Derek gives him a look that clearly indicates that he knows that Stiles knows they’ve basically reached the end of the line for other options. Because Isaac? His only saving grace is that Scott is horribly oblivious to basically everything ever and that Allison isn’t the jealous type. 

“Right. So I’m stuck with you as my dating Yoda. Fantastic—“ The waitress arrives with their food, cutting him off effectively because _bacon burger_. It’s a beautiful plate of beautiful food, but he still notices when Derek withdraws his hand so he can cut his steak. His own hand just kind of sits there for a moment because it’s like he’s forgotten what to do with it, but he makes his brain restart and grabs ahold of his monstrous burger. Looks at it like a long lost lover because it’s really a thing of beauty. Then a big, overeager bite. 

“Oh fuck, that’s so _good_ ,” he says around the food in his mouth. It’s been a week since he’s had any meat, longer since he’s had any red meat, and it’s just so beautiful. 

“Maybe save that little display for the second date. Or third. Or never.” 

Stiles glares at him. “Don’t be jealous because my food gives me more joy than yours.”

“Are we calling _that_ —“ he makes a gesture at Stiles’ person “—‘joy’? Because I’m pretty sure you just creamed your pants.” Stiles maybe blushes a little bit, more at the implication that he’s got so much of a hair-trigger response than anything else. 

“Shut up. Eat your food. Don’t cast aspersions on the beautiful love shared between a man and his meat.” Derek raises a broody eyebrow and Stiles’ face gets hot. “…That came out wrong.” 

“I dunno,” Derek says, contemplating the chunk of steak on his fork. “I happen to appreciate the allure of a nice, big piece of meat.” When Stiles chokes, he grins in a way that can really only be described as carnivorous. 

“You’re a horrible person.”

Derek smiles with a sassy sort of spiteful joy while chewing, cheeks puffed out a little. He’s fucking ridiculous, that’s what he is. Asshole. Horrible, adorable asshole. Stiles just wants to punch him in the face. With his mouth. Only that’s weird and he’s not going to analyze that one too much. Self-preservation.

Ten minutes later, the waitress comes by to refill their drinks and Stiles orders one of the molten chocolate brownie things in retaliation because he knows Derek’s paying and that he’ll pretend to be pissed off and pout around greedily-large bites of delicious brownie goodness. Because he’s ridiculously predictable like that. Fucker.

By the time Stiles’ burger is only a lovely, fond memory and his belly is maybe a little too full for dessert (not that that matters because he’s gonna eat that bitch as soon as its in front of him), he feels like he might be vaguely whale-sized. He ends up kind of splayed all over the place in an effort to speed up his digestion. And then Derek takes his hand again. Stiles looks at their entwined fingers but doesn’t say anything; Derek is helping him and he’s not about to stop him. 

“I need that molten pile of beauty before I sink into a coma. Derek, make them bring us our dessert faster,” he whines, half-joking.

“You’ll survive,” he says, but Stiles is choking on air or something because the toe of a boot is kind of nudging the inside of his ankle in a way that is definitely not accidental. And kind of traveling up a little, to his calf, _dear God_. “Lesson four: don’t try to play footsie until after you’ve finished your meals. And Lesson Four-Point-Five: if she initiates any sort of physical contact, try not to make that face. You don’t want her to think you’re having a stroke or something.”

“I hate you.” It ends up being kind of bit off at the end because Derek’s foot hooks around his calf and tugs it forward and his legs are falling open and this is a little more than he bargained for. And of course, Derek looks totally unruffled, like he’s not molesting Stiles’ leg under the table or anything, like he’s _bored_ even. Asshole. 

The waitress comes with dessert and gives him a little smile that he’s not going to think about because there’s delicious food in front of him. He grabs a spoon and dives in, tries to control the inappropriate noises his mouth wants to make when the ice cream and cake hit his taste buds. 

“You’re going to get us arrested for public indecency. _Control. Your. Face_ ,” Derek growls. 

“It’s just so _good_.” Maybe he whimpers a little. Maybe that’s a thing that happens. Oh well. It’s fucking good. Derek can enjoy his stupid wolfy angst instead of the eighth wonder of the world. Sucks to suck. 

He’s got this constipated look, and Stiles remembers this movie where this woman told this man that he was constipated in his soul. Because that’s basically Derek’s personality summed up in its entirety.

“ _I think you might have a really big load of grumpy petrified poop up your soul’s ass_ ,” Stiles quotes, scooping a bit of brownie onto his spoon. “Now open up for the choo-choo train, Der-Der. The Chocolate Express is coming.” Derek always hates it when he talks to him like a toddler, but when Stiles holds the spoon up to his mouth, he accepts it. With this little purring growl noise in his chest and his _mouth_ ….Yeah. Okay. Mouth. Right. Everyone has one. Nothing special about Derek having a mouth. Nothing at all. 

“I hope we’re not interrupting too much,” Erica says, startling Stiles out of his train of thought, as she slides into the booth next to him. He ends up pressed up against the wall because Boyd joins their side, Isaac taking the seat next to Derek. “Ooh, this looks good,” she says, taking the spoon from his hand and scooping up a big bite. 

Derek growls, a warning this time, and she stops, food halfway to her mouth. 

She lowers the spoon, sighs and says, “It’s date night, isn’t it? We’ll move to another booth, don’t worry—“

“It’s fine,” Derek says quickly. “We were just leaving. Keep the booth.”

“We were?” Stiles stumbles over that, but the look he gets is pretty clear. “We are, yeah. Leaving. Enjoy.” 

They all file out so Stiles and Derek can escape, and Derek guides him out of the restaurant with a hand on his back. They don’t talk until they get in Derek’s car.

“They proved my point, you know. About how everyone thinks we’re dating. Because that’s a serious issue and we still need to do something about it.”

“Working on it,” Derek grits out. “And this way, they pick up our tab.”

Stiles gapes, a smile tugging at the corner of his open mouth. “You are so _sneaky_. I don’t know whether to applaud you or be very, very worried. Props, man.”

Derek doesn’t say anything, but Stiles can tell from his profile that he’s making a valiant effort at not-smiling. The asshole’s damn proud of himself. Jerk. 

When they finally make it back to Stiles’ house, the light’s on and the cruiser’s in the driveway. His dad doesn’t expect him home until later. Hell, Stiles didn’t expect to be home until late because they usually spend a bit more time talking after they finish eating, but that’s what happens when your pack decides to cut your date short. Well, not-date. Okay, more of a pseudo-date because from the outside, that’s definitely what it looks like. What with the hand-holding and being alone and maybe even the feeding-Derek-dessert thing. Which they definitely saw. But it wasn’t. Because it just wasn’t. 

He’ll never convince a jury with that, but it’s enough for himself. 

Except Derek’s kind of walking him to his door. Which isn’t necessarily weird, actually, because sometimes he’ll use the front door now if he needs information or wants to work out a plan for some pack training, now that he and Stiles’ dad are okay. Even though his dad probably thinks they’re making out or something, which…no. That’s not at all what’s happening and Stiles is a little embarrassed that his dad thinks he’d do that right upstairs, when he could walk in at any moment.

“I can’t really talk much tonight. We have a Chem test the day after tomorrow, and if I don’t take notes, Scott’s going to undoubtedly fail, so I have homework tonight. I mean, you can hang out if you want? But I’ll need at least an hour.”

“It’s fine. I only have one more thing to teach you. Unless you don’t…”

“No, dude, _please_. You know I need all the help I can get.” They’re standing outside the front door, just kind of waiting, and Stiles wants to just _go inside_ because this feels weird and, well, there’s an _inside_. So close. Yet so far. 

“Lesson six—“

“Five. We’re on five now, I think. Because the _don’t be Stiles_ one was four-point-five,” he supplies automatically, and Derek rolls his eyes because he’s being kind of a smart ass and because Derek likes to be sassy like that when he’s not busy pouting. And he kind of leans in a bit, but that’s because werewolves have this weird idea that personal space isn’t actually a thing. 

“Five, then. It’s the easy one.” Stiles’ shoulder presses against the sharp corner of the mailbox next to the front door, and it hurts a little but he’s not really paying attention to that because Derek is, more or less, about to tell him the secrets of the universe. Hopefully. He looks a little hesitant, like maybe he thinks Stiles isn’t worthy of such great knowledge.

“What’s five?” he asks because they’ve been standing here for a couple seconds and he wants to _know_ , dammit. 

“If it goes well, you should kiss her goodnight,” Derek says, and it’s soft but loud enough because he’s _right there_ and he’s leaning in a little closer, close enough that their noses are almost touching, but he doesn’t move any more forward than that. But _what is he doing_? 

Except in a split second, Stiles knows exactly what he’s doing. Because all of the other lessons have been demonstrations, and Derek is going so far as to sacrifice his dignity so that maybe Stiles won’t make so much of a fool of himself later. Only he’s not going all the way, he’s waiting to see if it’s okay, to make sure it’s not breaching any sort of boundary here. He’s letting Stiles get there, so he does. He leans forward the spare inch or two until their lips meet. And no, he doesn’t really know what he’s doing, doesn’t actually know how to kiss anyone, so he just kind of holds his mouth there and Derek is so very still, like some sort of statue, for this long, long moment where Stiles basically wants to punch himself in the face because he’s clearly screwed up. 

But then Derek’s hand cups his jaw and he draws back a little before pressing in again. Thank God, because Stiles is completely at a loss and he needs a little direction. Like Derek tilting his head a little more, sucking a kiss against his lower lip which, yeah, feels really nice. And actually, it all feels really nice. How their bodies are pressed together, how it feels like Derek’s wrapped all the way around him even though he isn’t. And his mouth. Kissing is nice, actually. Really nice. Even if there’s stubble kind of scraping against his chin a little. 

So it’s nice, but he kinda wants to get to the tongue part. That sounds like fun. Or good practice for fun later on. Yeah. That’s what he means. 

Of course, he’s not really sure what to do to get to that point. 

But then Derek is sort of curling around him and it’s like this warm, good-smelling, muscular cocoon which isn’t something he really planned on being a part of, but he’s kind of holding onto Derek’s shoulders, he realizes, and it’s not something he did on purpose. It’s just some sort of instinct or something. The weird thing is, it’s _good_. He _likes_ this. Likes the way Derek’s mouth feels on his, and _that_ is enough to startle him out of it. 

He kind of jerks away a little and looks at Derek’s face, his expression, and that’s when he _gets i_ t. 

“Oh my God, we are _totally_ dating, aren’t we?” 

Derek shrugs. “Only if you want to be.” 

“Wait, so does this mean that when we go up to my room and my dad thinks we’re making out, _we could actually be making out_?” He gets this little smirk in response. “You’re such an idiot. You should have put the moves on me, like, _weeks_ ago. And God, _I_ ’m an idiot. Come on, let’s go inside before I die of embarrassment.” He takes Derek’s hand (and yeah, they’ve totally more or less held hands before this and he is _dumb_ , isn’t he?) and drags him inside, ignoring the way his dad yells “ _Use protection!_ ” as they climb the stairs.


End file.
